Golden Snidget
by PufftMG
Summary: A HarryxDraco post-war ficlet. "I beat you," Draco said with a maniacal grin settling comfortably onto his face - quietly now, as blood loss really was a hassle and staying conscious definitely overrated.


Golden Snidget by PufftMG

There was blood.

_So_ much blood.

Too much blood and not enough Draco.

And it was _spreading._

_Oh God_ –

And really, that's what it all came down to – and wasn't it a funny thing. Human beings, muggle and wizard alike, are one and the same; they invoke God when nothing remains. When all else fails, _then _they have faith.

_Let him have survived –_

Survival. Harry was in shock, in denial. To be blunt, Harry was scared shitless. For purely selfish reasons, to be sure, but that doesn't change what just _is_. He was panicking and still there was blood. A river of blood, and he was swimming in it. _Drowning_ in it.

_How did this happen, I was watching._

Wasn't that just the truth too? Harry was always watching. Draco had watched for seven years and then, well, it was Harry's turn; fair play and all.

"I've had it Potter, I'm done," Draco had said. "I'm sick of watching you fall, I'm sick of wondering if you'll get back up again," among the bright, colourful, bangs of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes all-start fire crackers, the sound of drunken laughter and the happiness of being young, free of the establishment and on the verge of war. Draco was there, right there, and Harry was too.

"I'm sick of having to stand here, with you there, and not be able to _help_," and Harry had been too shocked to answer. He had stood there, his eyes slightly glazed, then he had looked at Draco, really looked at him. Harry had smiled. Draco, whose eyes were not grey _bang_ but purple now _bang _and blue and then finally _bang bang bang_ just a haze of colours that Harry couldn't distinguish. They were opposites, Harry had been sure, so sure. Draco had been _there_ just left of down-right-annoying, between evil and selfish prat. And Harry, Harry had been _here_, at the other end with puppies and kittens and goodness and righteous courage. It didn't matter that Harry didn't like kittens and had never had a puppy, they were merely insignificant details, because this was where things went, where they fit. Hadn't Harry been surprised to find his filing system had not been, as he had originally assumed, along the wall of a rectangular classroom, but instead in a circle, a round room that placed him and Draco closer together than he had ever thought possible.

Yes Harry had smiled, warm from the Firewhiskey he was now legally allowed to consume and Draco had kissed him. Draco had stopped watching and now it was Harry's turn. It was his turn to watch and he had _failed_.

_Come on Malfoy, Please. You have to get up..._

Because it was always _Malfoy_, it always had been and why stop now? During weekend picnics, Monday morning coffee, late night reading and afternoon thunderstorms it was _Draco_ but during the really important times, the _passionate_ times, it was _Malfoy_. Always Malfoy, Malfoy and Potter because old habits die hard and there was history and Harry remembered_, always_ remembered because this was _his_. His and also theirs. If anyone knew that your origins could not be forgotten, it was Harry.

Then, finally, Harry sat back because Draco was breathing, very weakly, but still right there and Harry could feel it and finally knew that it wouldn't end here.

"Malfoy, if you die on me you'll regret it!"

And then all there was, was grey. Not grey like every other day in London but grey as the first morning light, before the sun rises and turns everything blinding bright, because Draco's eyes were opening and he was smiling. And still there was blood, blood everywhere. And certainly Draco's shirt was ruined – but he was smiling and Harry was sure that Draco wouldn't mind if he had to go shopping tomorrow or next week and buy another.

"Really Potter, what in Merlin's beard is all the noise?" Draco drawled, and then, only then, Harry breathed. Harry wondered if he had breathed since he'd come down from the roof – he couldn't remember breathing, but surely Draco would have mentioned the colouring; after all, it would have clashed with his shirt.

"Draco, you absolute git, you scared me half to death!"

"But it gets your heart beating faster, doesn't it, Potter?" Draco was feeling around his wound, still short of breath.

"Erg – why couldn't I have been wearing one of your shirts this morning? My mother bought this – pure Italian silk, one of a kind..."

And the world began spinning because Draco was Draco was Malfoy and everything was right in the world.

"Potter–"

…

"_Harry_"

He was looking again, away from his hands, away from the blood, from the shirt and the paving. Harry was watching again, had resumed his job and Draco was smiling too. He wouldn't fail this time, he would keep his end of the bargain, keep watching.

"Clumsy, clumsy git – what on earth were you thinking, Draco – you help defeat the Dark Lord, bring down dozens of his minions... what? they were!" to Draco's raised eyebrow, "Come on, my truce with your father doesn't _really_ change anything."

Harry still had his hand pressed to the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"A war, Draco, a bleeding _War_ you survived and then Christmas with the Weasley's – you survived Ron, and a meeting with Sirius and three months living with the Twins and then you go and fall off the bloody _roof_ while I'm trying to fix a blocked drain!"

And, really, Draco shouldn't be laughing, after all he had a hole in his side and Harry could _feel_ it and his face was more grey (this time, grey of the every other day in London as opposed to the morning light) than anything else, and Harry was sure he was feverish.

Draco was laughing and Harry didn't know quite why. Perhaps Draco was finally feeling the pain and hysteria was setting in. He squeezed Draco's hand just that little bit harder, worrying his bottom lip.

"Calm down Potter, wouldn't want the hero-of-the-wizarding-world to burst anything."

Harry should be mad, Draco _should_ have gotten sick of that by now, but Draco wasn't the evil genius Harry had thought he was; Draco was still as amused with eleven year old taunts as he had been when he was eleven.

"I beat you," Draco said with a maniacal grin settling comfortably onto his face – quietly now, as blood loss really was a hassle and staying conscious definitely overrated.

Harry was forced to lean closer, "What, Draco? You beat me at what?"

Draco kissed him, and now Harry even tasted the blood – but it was Draco's and he would be all right. He was there, close to Harry's ear, whispering, and Draco's hand was moving, opening.

"I beat you Potter, I've done something you haven't. I've done it first!"

And Draco finally lost consciousness, because, really, there was all that blood – not where it should be, still in Draco, but down his shirt and down Harry's shirt and in Harry's mouth and across the lawn like a Pollock painting. And for the moment it took for Harry to realise that Draco's chest was still rising regularly, his own heart stopped for the second time in one day. But, _no_, Draco hadn't beaten him to _that_.

Draco's hand unclenched and suddenly something was there, and then it wasn't. It was in Harry's hand. Because Harry had seeker reflexes and Harry wasn't standing on the edge of the roof of his third story flat, complaining about the wind and the dirt and his absolute abhorrence of all actions beginning with 'w' that rhymed with 'irk'.

"_A Malfoy with dirty nails? A Malfoy participating in manual labour? Willingly? Heavens, Potter, what do you take me for? A Weasley?"_

Harry opened his hand and there, right _there_, was something small, small and golden, delicate wings spattered with Draco's blood. Draco was right, he had beaten Harry. But that was okay, Harry had learnt to concede defeat... if only to Draco.

And then, Harry smiled, not a bright, courageous, _Gryffindor_ smile but the sly, sneaky, smile that told of his near-acceptance into that most _cunning_ house of Slytherin. Because, of course, it didn't count; Harry, most unfortunately, had not been watching. Draco couldn't prove anything. And Harry would ask for proof, which Draco couldn't give. His _word_ didn't count because he was a Slytherin (a Slytherin, moreover, who had _never_ been near-accepted into Gryffindor). Draco would be furious when he woke up later and realisation hit. It was, like life, totally unfair. But Draco was unconscious, so he couldn't complain. And Harry could do nothing but sit back and wait, wait for the mediwizards. And watch.

The tiny birds' wings fluttered against Harry's half-closed hand - they tickled just a little and made the corner of Harry's mouth twitch ever so slightly. And, just then, quite abruptly, a flicker of glee eclipsed Harry's anxiety, his guilt, and even his _dread_ of the impending shopping expedition Draco's ruined shirt would surely instigate.

Yes, Harry had never caught a Snidget before but, for all anyone else knew, Draco might not have either. After all, three stories was an awful long way to fall and _Draco_ was _obviously_ delirious.

Harry opened his hand and, after a brief pause, the Snidget zipped off; back to whatever secret pocket it had emerged from.


End file.
